


This Charming Man

by AequoAnimo



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Backstory, First Meeting, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AequoAnimo/pseuds/AequoAnimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seminary student Jamie MacDonald punctures his bicycle tyre in the rain on his way home to Motherwell. A young journalist gives him a lift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Charming Man

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise is taken from the song in the title, but the plot diverges from it pretty early on in the story.

It's not the Saturday night Jamie would have normally envisioned for himself, but he's coping. His mam's got a new bairn, courtesy of Johnny, the latest man of the house. Unfortunately, the bairn is just about all she's fucking getting from Johnny these days, so on Saturdays, she works the night shift at the pub on the corner. It's not the best environment for an exhausted new mother, but it helps pay the rent. To help, Jamie's cycling down from seminary to watch his brothers and sisters while she works. The kids can stay together alone for a little while until he arrives, but after about half an hour, someone inevitably needs stitches or a bath or both. He's best off getting home as soon as possible.

Since he left the dormitory about fifteen minutes ago, the gentle rain has evolved into a steady downpour. The brown mop on his head is growing curlier. He's got to keep his hair cut above his ears according to the rules strictly enforced by that fat tyrant Father Ian, but that doesn't stop him from growing it long on top.

He's thankful that he's at least remembered to wear his wool sweater. It keeps him somewhat warm in the dampness, even though it looks absurd on his tiny frame. It sags in the underarms and reaches far below his belt – a hand-me-down from a boy from his block who graduated from the seminary a couple years ago. Their mams are friends. He feels a bit silly wearing it, but he makes up for it by busting the jaw of anyone who mentions it. He presses on, despite the rain in his eyes. It should take him about another twenty minutes to ride home, if he keeps up his current pace.

And so on Jamie pedals into the mist, the sky growing an ever-deeper shade of blue now that the sun's slipped past the horizon. The road is mostly dark now, with the occasional headlights passing him by. His wee legs pedal round and round mindlessly, motivated by the hope of towelling off and sleeping in front of a radiator. He hopes that the bairns will be tired enough to not make too much noise tonight.

He hears a distinct popping noise from the ground, followed by a faint hiss. _Fuck._ He brakes quickly and pulls his bike into the ditch on the side of the road. It's even damper there. It's hard to see in the dark, so he squeezes the tyre. There's definitely some sort of puncture. Probably the remnant of some bastard's brilliant idea of throwing a pint glass out the window. He could have been that bastard, although he's too occupied to fully entertain that thought now.

He  looks back and forth down the road. Not a car in sight. There's a bend about a hundred metres back, though, so there's hope that some half-drunk  god-sibling or  neighbour or  _father_ might come around it to his rescue. Other than that, he's out of fucking luck.  He  sticks his hand into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of his  switchblade . At least no one 's going to  hurt him  out here  tonight –  not that there's anyone around  _to_ hurt him . He  pushes the stubborn bike along the damp road, socks now squelching in his shoes thanks to the worn-out stitching on the seams.

He fantasi s es about swaddling himself in the quilted blanket that his gran knit him for his first Communion  eleven years ago.  A wee fucking Nativity scene right in the middle of their cramped living room, except with screaming children surrounding him instead of braying donkeys. The two are nearly the same, he  smiles to himself.  He wouldn't trade them for anything, though,  and he'd crush the skull of any fucker who supposed he would .

Headlights glint around the bend as the rain grows heavier. He leaps up and down, a fucking Motherwell jumping bean,  bellowing and waving as he does when his  striker is  making his way down the  f ield to an open goal. He sends up a thousand entreaties to the  Blessed Mother  and whoever the patron saint of stranded trainee priests is  for this one car  to stop for him.

Just as Jamie thinks  it' s going to pass him by,  the car abruptly comes to a halt in front of him.  Music blares through closed windows. The sound grows louder as the driver leans across to roll the passenger window down.  Smoke wafts out,  reminding Jamie that he hasn't  sneaked a fag in a few hours .

Jamie  was expecting someone vaguely related to him, but this face  is entirely new. Gaunt as all hell, stubble along the jaw, eyes just a touch too red for this early on a Saturday evening. A  w ild mass of  brown  curls  sits atop his head.

“You just gonnae fucking stand there?” the thin man says, green eyes boring right through Jamie. If this doesn't catch Jamie off guard, the smirk he throws through the open window at him certainly does. He jerks his head inward, curls moving with a life of their own. “Throw the bike in the boot.”

J amie settles into the seat. Leather.  Not bad for a lad who couldn't possibly be over 25.

“Where you coming from?” the man asks after a few minutes of driving down the dark road.

“Seminary,” Jamie replies.

“You a fucking priest or something?”

Jamie's trying not to stare, but he can detect a faint grin of contempt out of the corner of his eye.

“Trainin' to be, aye.” Christ, when he says it like _that,_ the priesthood suddenly doesn't seem so appealing anymore.

“Where you headed?”

“Motherwell, if it's not too much trouble.”

Jamie prays that his grunt is a yes.

The car jerks around a bend in the road. “What's your name, anyway?” the man asks, tone not noting the immediate danger of flipping over into the ditch. Jamie  doesn't even flinch .

“MacDonald. Jamie MacDonald. You?”

“Malcolm Tucker,” he says, pointing his chin upward. “Good to meet you. It's your lucky fucking day, MacDonald. I'm stopping in Motherwell tonight. Got to pick up some things.”

Jamie smiles. With brothers and cousins like his, Jamie knows exactly what brings Malcolm to Motherwell. Hell, it's probably one of Jamie's relatives selling the shite to him.

“Oh, aye? Who you meetin' there?”

“Fuck's sake, Father Tom, you think I'm going to tell you?”

“It's _Jamie._ ”

Malcolm casts him a glance, partially to put the wee cleric in his place and partially to get a better look at the frankly massi v e blue eyes bulging from the sopping wet creature's head.

“Aye _, J_ _amie._ I'm not telling you. After all, I wouldn't want you to have to go to confession,” Malcolm drawls  with a self-satisfied grin. Jamie rolls his eyes.

“So what do you do, then?” Jamie asks.

“Journalist.”

“Herald?”

Malcolm chuckles. “Fuck, no. Small paper. It's a start, though. I won't be there for too much longer, if things go right.”

Jamie grunts, unsure of what to say. He's never known someone who fucking wrote for _money_ before, let alone a journalist.

They pass a sign heralding their arrival in Motherwell. “Now, what street am I droppin' you on?”

“Thomson. It's, er, on the east side. Closer to Wishaw.” Jamie looks down, hoping Malcolm won't kick him out of the car right here.

“Jesus Christ, MacDonald,” Malcolm hisses, throwing his head back against the seat in a fashion reminiscent of Jamie's little sister, Cath. “Gonnae have to take you with me after all. It'll be too out of the way otherwise. You – you just keep your Junior Jesuit arse in that seat while I take care of things, right?” He punctuates this with a finger pointed at Jamie, eyes lingering just slightly longer than is safe for someone behind the wheel. For fuck's sake, Malcolm isn't about to let him see what he's doing. God knows who the wee runt would fucking tell.

After they enter the small town, Malcolm takes another sharp turn, this time down a dark close. Despite being a seminary student, Jamie is no stranger to what goes on in this part of his town. To Malcolm's surprise, he's quite at ease, humming an old jazz tune under his breath as he looks out the window.

Malcolm stops the car with another screech. There's a tall man leaning against a dilapidated old factory building, clutching a paper bag against his chest to shield it against the rain. Jamie eyes him. He's been in situations like this one with his cousins enough times to know to stay on his toes.

Malcolm slams the door behind him and strides over to the man. Jamie can't tell exactly what he's saying, but it looks pretty fucking clear that he wants something from Malcolm. Jesus, is the skinny bastard _bargaining?_ Doesn't he know to just pay up and leave before a cop sees them? He shakes his head, knowing what he has to do.

Outside, panic fills Malcolm's stomach as the street lamp light glints off of a metal handle inside the bulky man's coat. He had assumed the man, albeit a stranger, was on his side. There's a hammer in the boot, but it would take too long to get to it and he's never been much good at -–

“ _Fucking Christ!_ ” The tall man sinks to the ground in agony, revealing a feral terrier vaguely resembling Jamie behind him, bearing a massive grin across his rabid face. He's clutching a small knife. The wee cunt's reacted the only way he knows how; he's gone and stabbed the traitor behind the knee. Malcolm's eyes flash from him to the shouting man and back again. He makes a wobbling run for the car and Jamie follows. They speed off long before the man can regain his footing.

They don't catch their breath until the next red light. Malcolm leans forward, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Jamie just blankly stares through the windshield. Malcolm sneaks a glance at him. Jesus wept, what was this creature in his front seat even fucking made out of? Malcolm had figured he was just a pathetic sopping wet seminarian, but what kind of future priest fucking _stabs_ a guy for someone he barely knows?

Jamie's the one who breaks the silence. “So, what kind of shite you got in there?” He nods to the bag in the back seat. His money is on coke, given Malcolm's absurd thinness.

“Papers. Photos, really. The fucker said he'd give them to me for free. Repayin' a favour.”

“Oh, aye? And what do you need 'em for?” Jamie smirks, instincts sensing scandal.

So fucking nosey _,_ this one. But after what he did back there, Malcolm feels like he owes the lad.

“I'm working on a story about that City Council fuck, Alec Buchanan. He's taking bribes from the guy who wants to build a factory near one of the council estates. If I break this story, our paper'll finally get noticed and the cunt'll be gone by Tuesday.”

“Well, let's have a look at the fucking photos then!”

Malcolm never forgets the mad look in Jamie's eyes as he pores over the security camera shots. In later years, it still surfaces from time to time – when they get their hands on a sonogram of Peter Mannion's lovechild or when he discovers a new spot that makes Malcolm's toes curl just the right way – but it's never quite as simultaneously captivating and terrifying as it is in the front seat of his Cortina tonight.

When Malcolm pulls up to Jamie's block, Jamie gathers his things. “Stop by the office tomorrow,” Malcolm says casually as Jamie climbs out of the car.

“And where the fuck's that?”

“Duke Street, next to the pawnbroker. I could use a bloke like you,” Malcolm says. “Really. You've got good instincts.” Jamie nods slowly, not entirely sure what he is agreeing to but drawn to him nonetheless.

After Jamie grabs his bicycle from the boot, Malcolm peels off, leaving Jamie in a cloud of exhaust. As he wheels it to the flat, he tries to make sense of what on earth just happened. To date, everything Jamie has done has been driven by deeply-ingrained tribal loyalty. Fridays, he screams his lungs out for Celtic; Saturdays, he helps his mam with his siblings; Sundays, he goes to Mass. Perhaps rinse, definitely repeat. He's known these loyalties all his life; he was born into them. But back in that close, some force of nature that he didn't fully understand compelled him to get out of car and fight for this lanky hack he hardly knew.

He misses Mass the next morning.

 


End file.
